Rudyard Kipling's "The Children's Song" The first two stanzas of that poem are:

Land of our Birth, we pledge to thee
Our love and toil in the years to be;
When we are grown and take our place,
As men and women with our race.
Father in Heaven who lovest all,
Oh help Thy children when they call;
That they may build from age to age,
An undefiled heritage.

There are many other Kipling poems, equally
dangerous, which have been deleted from every
edition of his works published since the Second
World War. Here are three of them:

A Song of the White Men

Now, this is the cup the White Men drink
When they go to right a wrong,
And that is the cup of the old world's hate --
Cruel and strained and strong.
We have drunk that cup -- and a bitter, bitter cup
And tossed the dregs away.
But well for the world when the White Men drink
To the dawn of the White Man's day!

Now, this is the road that the White Men tread
When they go to clean a land --
Iron underfoot and levin overhead
And the deep on either hand.

We have trod that road -- and a wet and windy road
Our chosen star for guide.
Oh, well for the world when the White Men tread
Their highway side by side!

Now, this is the faith that the White Men hold When they build
their homes afar --
"Freedom for ourselves and freedom for our sons
And, failing freedom, War. "
We have proved our faith -- bear witness to our faith, Dear
souls of freemen slain!
Oh, well for the world when the White Men join
To prove their faith again!

The Stranger

The Stranger within my gate,
He may be true or kind,
But he does not talk my talk -- I cannot feel his mind.
I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,
But not the soul behind.

The men of my own stock
They may do ill or well,
But they tell the lies I am wonted to.
They are used to the lies I tell,
And we do not need interpreters
When we go to buy and sell.

The Stranger within my gates,
He may be evil or good,
But I cannot tell what powers control
What reasons sway his mood;
Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
Shall repossess his blood.

The men of my own stock,
Bitter bad they may be,
But, at least, they hear the things I hear,
And see the things I see;
And whatever I think of them and their likes
They think of the likes of me.

This was my father's belief
And this is also mine:
Let the corn be all one sheaf --
And the grapes be all one vine,
Ere our children's teeth are set on edge
By bitter bread and wine.

Song of the Fifth River

When first by Eden Tree,
The Four Great Rivers ran,
To each was appointed a Man
Her Prince and Ruler to be.

But after this was ordained,
(The ancient legends tell),
There came dark Israel,
For whom no River remained.

Then He Whom the Rivers obey
Said to him: "Fling on the ground
A handful of yellow clay,
And a Fifth Great River shall run,
Mightier than these Four,
In secret the Earth around;
And Her secret evermore,
Shall be shown to thee and thy Race."

So it was said and done.
And, deep in the veins of Earth,
And, fed by a thousand springs
That comfort the market-place,
Or sap the power of Kings,
The Fifth Great River had birth,
Even as it was foretold
The Secret River of Gold!

And Israel laid down
His sceptre and his crown,
To brood on that River bank,
Where the waters flashed and sank,
And burrowed in earth and fell,
And bided a season below,
For reason that none might know,
Save only Israel.

He is Lord of the Last --
The Fifth, most wonderful, Flood.
He hears Her thunder past
And Her Song is in his blood.
He can foresay: "She will fall,"
For he knows which fountain dries
Behind which desert-belt
A thousand leagues to the South.

He can foresay: "She will rise."
He knows what far snows melt
Along what mountain-wall
A thousand leagues to the North.
He snuffs the coming drouth
As he snuffs the coming rain.
He knows what each will bring forth,
And turns it to his gain.

A ruler without a Throne,
A Prince without a Sword,
Israel follows his quest.
In every land a guest,
Of many lands a lord,
In no land King is he.
But the Fifth Great River keeps
The secret of Her deeps
For Israel alone,
As it was ordered to be.

Kipling was a man of his time, no doubt, and his poetry reflected the values of that time.

And if they're editing his works now, to make him appear to be something he was not, that is WRONG! WRONG! TOTALLY AND ENTIRELY WRONG!

It is liberal kneejerking revisionism of the worst order, and had if the power, I would strip the academic and publishing credentials of any person -- however pure his motives -- who would rob that man (or any author, for that matter) of his or her TRUE voice.

FWIW, I think this is truly one of the finest poems Kipling ever wrote.

It is racist? Clearly it is.

Does it offend me? Of course not. And it should not offend anyone now, either, regardless of their race, ethnic or poltical persuasion.

This poem is history, and attempting to clean up literary history to make it more palatable to modern sensibilities is a crime against literature AND humanity.

YOU may talk o' gin an' beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But if it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them black-faced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.

The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a twisty piece o' rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted "Harry By!"
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.

It was "Din! Din! Din!
You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some juldee in it,
Or I'll marrow you this minute,
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

'E would dot an' carry one
Till the longest day was done,
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
With 'is mussick on 'is back,
'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire."
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide,
'E was white, clear white, inside
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!

It was "Din! Din! Din!"
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could 'ear the front-files shout:
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I sha'n't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst,
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.

'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' 'e plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' watergreen;
It was crawlin' an' it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.

It was "Din! Din! Din!
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around:
For Gawd's sake, git the water, Gunga Din!"

'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died:
"I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
In the place where 'e is gone
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
'E'll be squattin' on the coals
Givin' drink to pore damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!

Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

Kipling was a man of his time, no doubt, and his poetry reflected the values of that time.

And if they're editing his works now, to make him appear to be something he was not, that is WRONG! WRONG! TOTALLY AND ENTIRELY WRONG!

It is liberal kneejerking revisionism of the worst order, and had if the power, I would strip the academic and publishing credentials of any person -- however pure his motives -- who would rob that man (or any author, for that matter) of his or her TRUE voice.

FWIW, I think this is truly one of the finest poems Kipling ever wrote.

It is racist? Clearly it is.

Does it offend me? Of course not. And it should not offend anyone now, either, regardless of their race, ethnic or poltical persuasion.

This poem is history, and attempting to clean up literary history to make it more palatable to modern sensibilities is a crime against literature AND humanity.

Click to expand...

Well said. I couldnt agree more. Kipling was one of the truly great English writers and he remains to this day the youngest ever recipient of the Nobel prize for literature. His works are unsurpassed in interpreting the experiences of empire at that time and as well as being a historic record of the times, are part of our British heritage.

The fact that his works are being censored is just another example of a subtle, top-down pressure by bleeding heart liberalists to make history palatable for certain ethnic minorities. A blatant case of plundering the past to bolster policies for integration and inclusion.

There may well be indigenous aspects of British history and identity that are not comforting for disparate communities today, but history is not an all-purpose balm to soothe the birth pangs of modern society and it does everyone a disservice - established and migrant communities alike.

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